Mr Holmes
by Zanchev
Summary: After the wizard war, Harry Potter is once again sacrificed for the public's peace of mind, and is locked away in Azkaban on his eighteenth birthday. Four years later, he is visited by the British Government and offered freedom in exchange for his unique views and skills. Armed with his new identity, Harry is released into Muggle London and pointed towards the nearest corpse.
1. Prologue

**Obligatory Disclaimer**

**I, Jerri Zanchev, hereby state that I do not own Harry Potter, or BBC Sherlock, nor any characters, plot points, settings, and so on that are found within and/or are immediately recognisable from the aforementioned franchises. Any and all recognisable factors of this work of fiction have been borrowed from BBC and JK Rowling for the purposes of entertainment, and not for and personal/monetary gain.**

***xXx***

**~Prologue~**

The black umbrella twirled between long fingers in the near darkness, almost thwacking one of the prison guards in the back of the head as he fumbled with keys. The other guard smothered a shocked laugh, and the umbrella stilled. Mycroft Holmes raised an eyebrow - all the magic in the world and the wizard prison still needed keys?

"The wards on the doors block all magic; we need the keys to access the high security cases," the fumbling guard muttered in response to Mycroft's huff. The muggle checked a pocket watch and shifted slowly, impatience oozing from every perfectly maintained pore. The door finally creaked open, and both guards immediately ducked inside - past the wards, Mycroft assumed - and shouted a spell.

Mycroft watched the two faintly flickering silver guardians blankly. He knew all about magic, and the magical world. He quietly wondered how - as a muggle and a suspected sociopath - the dementors would affect him. As he followed the guards, he silently pondered how they had affected the prisoner he was going to meet.

Mycroft walked briskly, ignoring the moans and groping hands coming from the cells on either side. The guards flinched and sneered, but led him quickly to the end of the hall. The highest security cell in the highest security wing of the highest security prison. Mycroft smiled briefly. This particular specimen seemed to always do things in threes.

The guard with the keys shook with nerves as he unlocked the cell. Mycroft stepped neatly around the man and walked into the tiny room. He didn't react as the door clicked and locked behind him, eyes only for the man before him.

He was barely out of boyhood, very tall and worryingly thin. Thick dark hair lay matted down to his shoulders, and his cheekbones jutted out harshly. His frail looking body was contrasted by his upright posture and sharp eyes that took in Mycroft's every movement from his seat at the far wall.

"Good day, Mr -"

"Oh, day, is it? That's nice. Sunny, judging by the faded lint on the shoulders of your coat. This of course begs the question; why have you got an umbrella? But you look like a creature of habit and preparation, so that's boring. I'm so very bored. Why are you here?"

Mycroft blinked in surprise, then smiled. It seemed the man's insight and intuition had not fallen from its legendary status. The man sniffed and shifted, bringing Mycroft's attention back to him. He nodded his agreement to the prisoner's statement, and wrinkled his nose at the savagely pleased grin he got in return.

"My name is Mycroft Holmes, and I am a representative of -"

"Lying. You're not a lackey. I know lackeys. You're a leader, in charge, but not a General. No... Oh! You're a yucky politician, all fake smiles and fake promises and fake hair. How's Her Majesty?"

Mycroft paused. How did he...?

"Dog hairs. Corgi. On your trousers. Smell of nicotine, not on your breath but on your clothes. Not your cigarettes. I know the whole family have a certain filthy habit, so it's obvious. Has young Harry found anyone yet? It's been a while."

"Prince Harry remains... Unattached. Her Majesty is well. I am, for lack of a better term, a member of the British Government, and I need your expertise."

The man snorted, picking at his wrists. Mycroft saw raw patches of new skin, but said nothing.

"My 'expertise' is what got me clapped in irons in the first place, Mr Holmes. People don't like it when you understand them. Or when you can cast spells without a wand. Or when you kill serial murderers."

"Nevertheless, I have need of you, and I can offer you your freedom in exchange."

The man looked up, eyes shining.

"Not lying. Interesting. You need power for that, Mr British Government. A lot of power. I've been here for years, after all. Four, nearly five I'd say, judging by your eyebrows."

Mycroft didn't ask.

"What does 'freedom' entail?" the man asked.

"Escape from Azkaban, a new identity, a flat in muggle London, all your finances and belongings from all of your Lordships and inheritances returned to you, a form of diplomatic immunity, additional monthly payments from the government, and access to anything you may need for experiments and investigations - within reason," Mycroft listed off.

"Yes, yes, but what's the catch?"

Mycroft smiled.

"You will be, officially, a renegade genius and 'consulting detective', helping on curious cases. Unofficially, and far more secretly, you will be the Crown's personal investigator, looking into concerns of the royal family and the British Isles."

"So, I get out of here, get a shiny new name, some toys, and then I just... do whatever you tell me to?" the man hummed, pressing his fingers together and propping them at his chin. Mycroft waited, trying not to fidget. The man was unnaturally still.

"I accept, Mr Holmes. This is far too interesting to pass up," the man stood, shaking Mycroft's hand firmly.

"Excellent. Thank you, Mr Potter."

Potter - Harry - grinned violently. His eyes were scarily sane after nearly five years in Azkaban.

"No, thank you, Mr Holmes. I was so very bored."

"Please, call me Mycroft. You're my new little brother, after all," Mycroft smiled flatly, and Harry laughed delightedly.

"This will be fun, Mycroft Holmes."

"I quite agree, Sherlock Holmes."

**AN - **

**Whelp. This sort of just happened out of nowhere one night, so I'm gonna throw this up here and see what people make of it. If people like it I'll continue the fic, if not this snippet can work as a oneshot of sorts.**

**Adventure!**

**See y'all on the flip side,**

**Zanchev**


	2. Chapter One

**~Chapter 1~**

_Cold, cruel eyes looked on dispassionately as Harry screamed and thrashed. Cold hands clutched at his clothes, his skin, dragging him backwards into the dark._

_"No! No! Please!" Harry screamed and screamed. Begged. Pleaded. "Help me! Ron, Hermione, anyone please help me!"_

_"It's for the best," voices whispered, a cacophony of damnation. "You're too dangerous."_

_Harry sobbed, alone but for the cold, clammy hands that threw him to the floor and locked him in the dark. He screamed, the whispers getting louder, louder._

_"For your own good, too dangerous, **FREAK**..."_

Sherlock sat bolt upright in his bed, panting. He glanced around, every detail burying into his brain, calming him with emotionless, unfeeling data. He saw the time and groaned, rubbing at his face.

He needed a cigarette.

He dragged himself from the bed - he'd never sleep more now - and pulled a nicotine patch from under the skull he'd pilfered from his first case, slapping it to his arm and moving to his kitchen. He dodged the severed hand hanging from his ceiling fan and began to make himself a cup of tea.

His phone pinged, and Sherlock flipped it open. It was a text from Mycroft. Must be a meeting - dentists are hardly open at three in the morning.

**[Have you found a new flat yet? -MH]**

Sherlock huffed. The idea to move flats was ridiculous. He'd been fine here for four years, why change now? The fact that he'd spoken to Mrs Hudson (an old case; fun but painfully easy) and had a flat on Baker Street ready for him was completely beside the point. He flicked a text back, hoping it buzzed at an awkward point in Mycroft's business.

**[Have a place lined up. Go away. -SH]**

Sherlock sipped at his tea and sat on his table, poking a petri dish with his toe. He was bored again. The nightmares and memories always got worse when he was bored. His phone pinged again.

**[You must get a flat mate this time. It will decrease suspicion and intrigue. -MH]**

Sherlock groaned. He hated people; they were always so boring and petty and selfish. So normal. At least Mycroft was ruthless, and Mrs Hudson had biscuits. Mycroft was right, of course, but flatmates meant no magic. And talking.

**[If I must. Meanie. -SH]**

Sherlock cleaned up after himself and fetched his coat. It was too boring here. He had to go, get his mind working again. Maybe go visit that Stamford bloke - he always talked to lots of people. Sherlock glanced outside and frowned. Waiting until daylight was probably a good idea.

Sherlock pulled on his coat and scarf, before he took his riding crop out from the freezer, snapping it against his palm. Time to visit Molly.

***xXx***

**[Found a flat mate yet? -MH]**

Sherlock muttered viciously under his breath, throwing his phone onto his discarded scarf and turning back to the body in front of him. He began to strike the hide of the - male, six foot two, mid fourties, estimated fourty three point seven years old, married twelve years three months divorced after two children and three affairs unsatisfactory job premature ejacul -

Sherlock gave a final whip of the crop and shook his head roughly. He was bored again. His Sight was acting up. He turned to smile at Molly, who was staring at him. He had seen Stamford earlier, and anticipated a result approximately four point two hours from their meeting. He accepted Molly's offer to make coffee and moved to the lab.

He was searching through a series of his own personal samples, looking at the reaction of alcohol in both his and a muggle's blood. The muggle didn't even notice him take his samples - pathetic. His phone pinged, and Sherlock flipped it out.

**[Sherlock, I expect a flat mate by the end of the day. -MH]**

Sherlock swore. That was a Serious Business text. It had his name and everything. He sent back an acknowledgement, well aware that he was only one or two away from a Deep Shit text, or worse - an 'I'm Telling Mummy' text.

Sherlock grinned; referring to the Queen as 'Mummy' was a moment of genius on Mycroft's part. As the only one in charge of the two of them, it turned out that they had to report to her often. Of course, talking about the Queen like that in public was out of the question, so Mycroft, seeing as they were playing Happy Family, came up with the idea to call her 'Mummy'. Her Majesty approved - even once tried to get Sherlock to call her that to her face - and the idea stuck.

Tucking his phone into his jacket pocket, Sherlock turned back to his samples. The door opened and Sherlock glanced up and smirked. Right on schedule.

Stamford walked in, followed by a limping man with a heavy duty walking stick. Sherlock winced in sympathy - he too had seen war. The man was young, recently off duty, shot but not in the leg - that limp was psychosomatic - he was tired PTSD caring practiced steady **doctor **-

Sherlock shook his head; the Sight was getting out of hand. It had been too long since he watched magic. He hated the Mage Sight sometimes. It was designed to See magic and it's intricacies, not be wasted in the Muggle world. It relieved itself with abnormal insight and _noticing_. Sherlock sighed softly, but returned his attention to Stamford and Mr Doctor.

"Can I borrow your phone?" he asked. Stamford was forgetful, never had it charged, leaving... yes. Caring Doctor to the rescue. He took the phone and sent off a nonsensical text to Mycroft. Serves him right, let him try and find a code in that!

"Afghanistan or Iraq?" Sherlock ignored Stamford's smile and kept looking at the doctor. His hands brushed over the phone, and the Sight hissed into his mind - alcoholic sibling recently separated wanting to keep in touch but as stubborn as Ron -

Sherlock shut the thought down and threw himself into his conversation, analysing the doctor - John Watson - furiously, but smiling when Watson said he was amazing. He'd forgotten how nice it was to be praised. Sherlock pushed away the sentiment by launching into a flat mate spiel.

"I play violin at all hours, hope you don't mind - helps me think. I believe flatmates should know the worst of each other, yes?" Sherlock smiled; if only that was the worst of him. John seemed a bit perplexed, and Sherlock heard him stutter over the buzz of a new text. He pulled out his phone.

**[What was that about? - MH]**

Sherlock smiled. It had taken dear Mycroft longer to figure that out than he'd thought it would. Slow. Sherlock stood, sweeping his coat and scarf into his arms just as Molly came in with coffee.

"Thanks, Molly, I'm off!" he smiled, ignoring her faintly melancholic nod. "Pleasure to meet you Doctor Watson. I've found a flat I think you'll like, see you tomorrow."

He heard Watson splutter some questions as he left, and he laughed to himself, pulling on his coat. He ducked Back and rattled off the answer, enjoying his new flatmate's gape.

"We'll meet at noon on the dot, the address is 221B Baker Street, and my name is Sherlock Holmes. See you tomorrow, Doctor Watson."

He swept out of the hospital, smiling widely. He'd move out to tonight, get things set up with Mrs Hudson... Sherlock pulled his phone out and sent dear Mycroft a text. Things were coming together well.

**[Found a flat mate. I like him. - SH]**

Mycroft sighed at the text. He hoped this 'him' would be able to deal with Potter - no, Sherlock - because God knew he couldn't. He called in his secretary - he'd need to meet this flatmate.

**AN - **

**Holy crap!**

**You guys are fantastic - nearly 700 visitors in under three days? And all your follows and favourites and reviews! Ugh I feel so loved! Thank yous and hugs and whatnot to you all!**

**I'm really pumped about this story now, looking forward to publishing more of it! At the moment I'm hoping to get a chapter up every Friday (Australia time) starting today, but I'm not sure for how long that will work, considering I'm hella busy for 90% of my life.**

**That said, I promise to keep working on this story diligently, and hope to see you all reading and reviewing and just enjoying the adventure as much as I am!**

**See y'all on the flip side,**

**-Z**


	3. Chapter Two

**~Chapter 2~**

John Watson looked around the cluttered flat with a faint smile. It was a nice place - he could see himself enjoying retirement here, once it was tidied up a bit. He glanced at the other man, Sherlock Holmes, and shook his head slightly. The seemingly younger man was wired, so tense John could almost smell it.

"It's nice, I like it," John offered, smiling when Sherlock relaxed.

"Thought you might, it's why I already moved in."

John blinked, then looked around. All this stuff was Sherlock's. It wasn't being moved out. Right. Sherlock seemed to know what he was thinking and began bustling about, talking about tidying up. John smiled. He reckoned he could like it here.

Sherlock seemed nervous, like he was expecting John to yell or leave or something. John wondered just how often this man was rejected for his gifts to behave this way - and what amazing gifts they were! He hadn't seen anyone deduce so much from so little since -

But that was a train of thought John wasn't willing to go down. He shook his head clear of memories of long ago and made himself focus on the now. Now, Sherlock seemed very excited.

"Come on, John!"

Before he quite knew what was going on, John was being swept away in a cab with Sherlock to - a crime scene?!

John swore to himself as his blasted cane got in the way of his being able to simply duck under the police tape. Sherlock - almost absentmindedly - lifted it for him, ducking under after him and quickly taking the lead on the way to the building. John was about to follow when he heard it. That hated word.

Freak.

He saw Sherlock pause infinitesimally, so slightly that no one else would notice. But John knew, somehow, that that word was important to Sherlock, the same way it was important to -

Again. Not that road.

Regardless, John detested the F word, and made sure to give the smug woman his most fearsome "I kill people for a living don't tempt me" glare on his way to follow Sherlock. If the woman had backed up a few steps and whimpered a bit, well John would deny his sense of smug satisfaction until the day he died.

He caught up in time to be fitted in a blue plastic suit and shoved towards the stairs. John looked between his cane and the multiple flights of steps, and cursed softly. A chuckle behind him had John spinning to see Sherlock looking amused. John rolled his eyes at his new flatmate, and followed him up the stairs.

His psychologist had told him to find a hobby, after all.

***xXx***

Pink. Pink everywhere.

John fought the urge to cover his eyes against the garish colour, instead choosing to watch the dark coat swirling about Sherlock's thin legs as he swept around the scene gracefully - like a vampire or something. Sherlock knelt beside the body, gleaning from a ring and some tiny spots of mud a whole theory on how the woman came to be where she was.

John couldn't fault Sherlock his conclusions, as much as he couldn't fathom how the man had reached them. Sherlock moved with a grace better suited to ballet, or a battlefield. Light steps, total control over every muscle in his body, tightly wound and poised to strike in any direction. So much like the bomb survivors and Prisoners of War they'd rescued in the Army. He couldn't help but follow Sherlock as he took the city by storm.

He hadn't even noticed he'd left his cane behind until that man from the restaurant - the one who'd thought he and Sherlock were dating - had returned it. John stared at the stick. He'd been so stupidly dependent on it, for weeks. Why had he let such a pitiful object - such a small fear - get the best of him like that?

And why had it taken Sherlock Bloody Holmes to break him out of it?

_How_ had he broken him out of it?

John soon left such thoughts behind him along with the cane as Sherlock blew through 221B Baker Street and back into the fray like a cyclone of sarcasm and ingenuity. John grinned to himself as he joined the adventure wholeheartedly. He hadn't had this much fun in years.

It wasn't until a lull in the action that John had a chance to think about his new flat - and his new roommate. He was no stranger to sharing bunks - army barracks and boarding school had beaten any need for privacy out of him long ago. He knew how to hide some of his bigger quirks in plain sight - though with Sherlock, he would probably have to get inventive. He was pondering his new situation when a phone rang.

Across the street.

John glanced around, but saw no one looking to take the call. He sighed, crossed the road, and took the phone off the cradle as he closed the booth.

"John Watson."

John was on instant alert. He knew that oily tone of voice well. Politician, smoothness and silent strikes, like a snake. He waited.

"It would seem we have a common acquaintance, Dr Watson," the voice slithered down the phone line. "I find myself curious about you, and your interest in one Sherlock Holmes."

"What -" John was interrupted.

"Dr Watson, I have eyes on you at any moment in any place. I know where you're spending your days and with whom. Do not insult my considerable intellect with playing dumb."

John scowled, but kept silent. The voice continued.

"Excellent. Now, if you would be so kind, I'd like to get to know you a bit better. Get in."

"Get in where?" John bit out, glancing around. His only response was a sleek black car gliding to a stop right beside the phone box he was in. John sighed, hung up, and slid into the car only to come face to face with a pretty young woman. He gave a smile.

"Hello, I'm John Watson," he offered his hand. The woman eyed it, then him, with a cocked eyebrow.

"I know."

John took back his rejected hand and leaned back, wondering just what the hell he'd gotten himself into this time.

**AN - **

**Howdy all!**

**Second chapter, hot damn! I'm loving this story way more than I probably should, not gonna lie.**

**I know I've taken dozens of liberties when it comes to the order of things and where people are and whatever in regards to the Sherlock episode, but I figure seeing as Sherlock is secretly a wizard, having one thing happen before another is a minor transgression :)**

**Speaking of loving things - holy shit, guys! My notifications exploded with all the love for this story, I'm staggered. I have nearly 700 notifications of follows and favourites and all that jazz. Super Stoked, you have no idea. **

**Hoping everyone is still enjoying the story, loving your reviews and looking forward to catching y'all on the flip side!**

**-Z**


	4. Chapter Three

**~Chapter 3~**

"Doctor Watson, welcome."

Mycroft eyed the doctor as he cautiously stepped into the dim light if the empty warehouse he had chosen for this meeting. The man was wary, smart, prepared to defend if necessary.

Good.

Mycroft smiled his best politician smile, not bothering to offer false warmth. The doctor grimaced back, and Mycroft noticed his right hand clenching into a fist, as if around a weapon. Interesting.

"So glad you could make it," Mycroft offered. Watson snorted, as inelegant as Sherlock. They stood in a six second impasse, before the doctor broke, to Mycroft's satisfaction.

"Why am I here?" he bit out. Mycroft found himself grudgingly impressed by the man's priorities. No who, what, or where; straight to the heart of the matter. He inclined his head in acknowledgement.

"You have been interested in Sherlock Holmes. I want to know why."

"You, ah, y'could have just asked nicely, instead of all this Secret Service, kidnapping business," Watson replied. He was still tense. Mycroft smiled blandly again.

"I shall take that into consideration for the future. Please, answer my questions, and quickly. I do have other appointments."

Watson scoffed.

"Appointments. Right. That what you lot call abduction nowadays, is it?"

Mycroft glared, and the doctor, to his credit, glared right back. It was closer to six minutes before Watson broke again, backing down reluctantly.

"He's my new flat mate. I just wanted to make sure I knew what I was getting into - bit paranoid, y'know?"

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. That was... somewhat believable, but not convincing. Watson shifted nervously, and Mycroft's other eyebrow joined the first.

"I see. Doctor Watson, what do you know about Sherlock Holmes?"

"Only that he's a consulting Detective, he's not got many friends, and he's brilliant."

Mycroft swallowed a sigh of relief - their secrets were still safe. He hid behind an entirely unsubtle attempt at bribing the Doctor to spy on Sherlock for him.

The reaction to that was surprising.

"I will never betray a friend like that! Never! Sherlock's business is his own - none of mine and certainly none of yours. Just who the do you think you are? How do you know of Sherlock?"

Watson's fist was clenched tighter; knuckles white. Mycroft couldn't help the small smile at the loyalty Sherlock already had coursing through the doctor, all for him. He was... proud of the wayward wizard.

"Doctor Watson, I assure you I mean Sherlock no harm. My name is Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock's brother. I'm only asking to -"

"That you are his brother only makes it worse, Mister Holmes," Watson spat. Mycroft was surprised at the rage in the doctor's eyes. "Family should be there for support, not spying."

Mycroft really wasn't sure what to make of Doctor Watson. The man seemed unassuming, kind, the sort to help you into bed after a stressful day or alcoholic night. And yet, in almost the same breath, the man was fierce, a fighter, not afraid to attack and - dare he think it - kill in defense of those he cared for. Mycroft looked the other man over, from the scuff marks on his shoes that indicated a walking stick, obviously unnecessary, to his thin and overworn cardigan, to the grey hairs at his temple - a sign of stress, given he couldn't be much older than Sherlock himself. Doctor Watson, it seemed, was a sleeping grizzly bear prowling the streets of London beside his brother. A hidden lion wearing a Sheep's woollen coat. Mycroft offered his special brand of Bland smile once more.

"I get the feeling you and I will end up working together quite closely, Doctor Watson. I find myself, surprisingly, looking forward to future collaborations," Mycroft extended a carefully manicured and sanitized hand. He tried not to wince when the doctor's coarse, calloused palm brushed his own, staining it with everyday life. He saw Doctor Watson roll his eyes and knew his subtlety was, well, not as subtle as he had hoped. Discretion abandoned, Mycroft took a sanitized wipe from a pocket and began to disinfect his hands as he gestured for his PA to escort the man home. "Do enjoy your new flat, John Watson. The company you keep will... ensure you're well entertained, no doubt."

**[I had a charming little chat with your new flat mate. I'm impressed. - MH]**

Sherlock groaned at the text; trust big brother Mycroft to get his slimy sanitized mitts all over Sherlock's nice new friend. Sherlock paused.

Did he really consider John to be his... friend?

Mulling it over he came to the conclusion that yes, yes he did. Despite not knowing him for more than seventy two hours, despite knowing little more than a few observations about the man, despite everything he'd done to keep everyone out and himself safe from emotion; Sherlock had found a friend in John Watson.

Sherlock grinned. He hadn't had a friend in such a long time. He'd forgotten how good it was to want to please someone just for the sake of making them smile. Sherlock looked around himself at the lab, where he was magically tearing apart and analysing the compound found in the dead Umbridge try hard. He wanted to... he wanted to share this, his accomplishments. For the first time since, well since before Hogwarts he wanted to show off. Say 'look what I did' and enjoy the reaction.

Harry grinned, green leaking through the blue glamour over his eyes as excitement took hold. He shook his head, re-applying the illusion absently, and shot a quick, snarky response to Mycroft before tapping on the conversation with John's mobile. What to say?

**[St Bart's Hospital, morgue. Come immediately if convenient. -SH]**

There, that should do it. Sherlock re read his message and frowned. It was too distant. He needed to imply how much he wanted John to be here with him, sharing his triumphs. Sherlock thought for a moment, before quickly tapping away another text.

**[If inconvenient, come anyway. -SH]**

Perfect. Sherlock sat back and returned his attention to the microscope in front of him, rechecking his conclusions for a seventh time.

He couldn't wait to show John.

**AN - **

**Hello again!**

**Another installment of Mr Holmes for you all, huzzah!**

**In which we see that John is already protective of Sherlock, Mycroft is a sleazy politician, and Sherlock has feelings.**

**I'm really excited to expand upon the hints I've already left regarding John, and Sherlock, and basically everyone, and look into what led to Sherlock winding up in Azkaban, and all the rest. So much to look forward to, so little time!**

**One little question - should there be pairings in this fic? There can, quite frankly, be no romance just as easily as there is, so it is entirely up to you, dear readers, whether or not you do want any of the characters to get any.**

**Thanks again for your continued love and support - every time I see my traffic stats I get this goofy grin on my face.**

**Catch y'all on the flip side**

**Zanchev.**


	5. Chapter Four

**~Chapter 4~**

**[St Bart's Hospital, morgue. Come immediately if convenient. -SH]**

**[If inconvenient, come anyway. -SH]**

John rolled his eyes at the messages Sherlock sent, shaking his fondly. The man seemed so distant and pushy, he didn't really understand why he liked the guy so much. Maybe it was the enthusiasm he showed in his adventures, or the way that his hair and smirk reminded him of -

Still not going there.

John paid the cab driver and raced into the Hospital, heading straight for the laboratories. He paused outside the door to take a deep breath, before letting himself in and wandering up to stand behind his new friend. Sherlock didn't move, for all the world seeming unaware of his surroundings, but John noticed the tiniest of twitches in the man's shoulders - he knew John was there, he likely knew exactly when John came in and the route he took to get where he was, at that.

"Met an interesting fellow just now," John said by way of a greeting. Sherlock didn't relax, if anything his back tensed further. John frowned to himself, wondering what the other man was thinking.

"Have fun with Mycroft?"

Ah, that was it. The casually asked, lazy question disguised the nervous tone of voice and stiff posture. John smiled, not even bothering to ask how Sherlock had known who it was he met - maybe he smelled of Mycroft's umbrella or something infinitesimal like that.

"It was an... interesting appointment," John replied, placing the emphasis on the word 'appointment' and wondering if Sherlock would pick it up. Oh, of course he would, but would he pick up what John was specifically implying, was the more interesting thought.

"I'll be sure to tell him to stop reading organised crime novels, shall I?" Sherlock muttered, and John beamed. Honestly, was there nothing this man couldn't puzzle out? "How much did he offer?"

John froze. How...?

"Must have been quite a lot, he always tends to aim high. Come on then, how much?"

John winced. Sherlock's brother had obviously done this before, then. Offered money or favours to have Sherlock monitored. He wondered how long that had been going on - had Sherlock had to weasel out spies as a child? Had he really been so alone for so long?

"How much, John?"

John's eyes snapped up to see Sherlock glaring at him, stance irritated and voice mildly annoyed, looking for all the world frustrated by his lack of response, but unaffected by the words he was spouting. John, however, could see the hurt and preparation to face betrayal in his eyes, and sighed.

"Not enough, Sherlock. Never enough," John offered a weak smile. Sherlock moved to snort, but paused when the words registered. His eyes widened slightly, and he stared at John again, as if seeing him for the first time.

Never before had John felt so thoroughly pulled apart and put back together again. Sherlock's eyes flashed from left to right, scanning every inch of John's face, hands, stance... John just stood and tried to be as relaxed, honest and open as possible. If he could show Sherlock he meant what he said, maybe the other man could finally let go of any standoffish distance he bundled around himself like a baby blanket and let others in...

"Not lying."

The whisper was almost inaudible, but John caught the words. They were uttered in a way that made John think it was unconscious on Sherlock's part, maybe some form of remnant from a time when he would... talk to himself? John took a slow step forward, and placed a gentle hand on Sherlock's shoulder. It took a few minutes, but eventually John felt the muscles beneath his fingers unknot and relax, slowly, but steadily. He smiled happily.

"So, what was so urgent, then?"

John's smile widened when Sherlock launched into an animated one-man debate about what he'd found on the Pink Lady. As Sherlock whirled around theories and danced through plot-holes in his own hypotheses, correcting and weaving a plausible scenario, John just smiled and watched, happy that he was slowly making his way into his friend's little world, step by baby step.

**[I win this round, old man. - SH]**

Mycroft rolled his eyes at the text message. Honestly, sometimes he could swear up and down to high heaven that Sherlock had never progressed beyond the mental age of five. All this talk of games and winning when in reality Mycroft had already rigged the board years ago. Nonsense, the lot of it.

That said, Mycroft was rather impressed by Sherlock's newest little partner in crime, for lack of a better phrase. John Watson had a sterling record, that he could find, all honour rolls and medals and approval. The man was honest, loyal, hardworking and very clever. It was a wonder he hadn't been pursued by half a dozen hospitals or government departments right after his retirement from the military. That Sherlock had managed to snap up such a political national commodity right under the noses of his corrupt and complacent colleagues was astounding, and rather vindictively pleasing.

**[Congratulations, brother dear. Do try to keep this one, I've grown tired of your constantly alienating, frightening, and experimenting on your pets. - MH]**

Mycroft leaned back in his horrendously squishy armchair and snapped his paper, enjoying the silence that came with the tea room. He scanned the world section of the Daily Telegraph and had a quiet chuckle. Honestly, the articles were better than the comics any day. The public were so simple minded, so utterly clueless as to the way of things. It was a constant source of amusement. Another buzz had Mycroft glancing to his phone once more.

**[This one's not a pet. And besides, I haven't needed you to clean up after me for four years now, Mycroft. - SH]**

Mycroft snickered at the term 'clean up', still in a jovial mood from the latest public news flash regarding the politics of Europe and the Colonies. It truly never got old. Clearing his throat and straightening his posture, Mycroft re read the message, noting the first sentence.

Could Sherlock finally be branching out of his self-imposed social exile? Intriguing. This Watson fellow appeared to be of more worth than originally expected. Mycroft did enjoy the odd pleasant surprise.

**[Yes, but you cannot forget the two years before that, where I was forced to have a whole street memory wiped almost thrice a month. Honestly, brother, take better care of your things. - MH]**

Mycroft could practically hear Sherlock huffing and puffing in childish outrage. The boy - for, no matter how old he was and what he'd borne witness to, he would always be just a boy, thrust into issues beyond him and forced to tackle problems too large for him - would pout and moan and curse at him, knowing that Mycroft was right and that both he and Mycroft knew it. Some things never changed.

**[Excuse me for needing a little while to get used to normal life in the outside world. - SH]**

Mycroft paused at that one, all left over hilarity quickly dissipated. This was no longer his spoiled, arrogant little brother pouting and bemoaning his imagined rotten luck. This was the young hero, who had saved the world three times before his eighteenth birthday, and again almost yearly since he turned twenty two, reaching out for reassurance. Mycroft sighed and rubbed at his temple. For all his intelligence and encyclopaedic knowledge of social cues and conventions, he always managed to forget that Sherlock - no, _Harry_ - was not one he needed to goad and manipulate, but an ally, a friend, someone who was at his back against the world.

Hard to believe that in the six years since Sherlock Holmes' creation, Mycroft had so easily forgotten that Harry Potter was still there, as well.

**[No feeling sorry for yourself now, Sherlock. Moping does not become you. - MH]**

Mood thoroughly sobered, Mycroft finished off his cake and sipped the last of his sweetened tea. Folding his newspaper and gathering his umbrella, Mycroft stood smoothly and made his silent way from the room, strolling to his car and settling for a trip to the Palace. He had appointments, after all. Not everything was cake and comedy.

A buzz from his pocket alerted Mycroft to the outside world.

**[I don't feel sorry for me, I feel sorry for everyone else. - SH]**

Mycroft smiled at the apology and thanks hidden inside and underneath the arrogance.

**[You're welcome. - MH]**

**[Piss off. - SH]**

Mycroft strode into Buckingham Palace with a thin, but genuine smile on his face. Confidence seeped through him and out into his commanding presence. Mycroft made his way to his Royal Meeting, smug in the knowledge that all was well.

**AN - **

**And here we have another installment of Mr Holmes! Hooray!**

**We get to see a little more into the relationship between Harry and Mycroft, which is nice. We also get to see the budding friendship between John and Sherlock, which is also nice.**

**Almost all the reviews I got in response to my question about the pairings were resoundingly against romantic pairings, and of the few that wanted pairings, only one wanted Johnlock. To be honest, I'm kind of pleased about this, and I'm looking forward to developing the friendship and possibly potential brotherhood between John and Sherlock. This will flourish more once I've finished with the first episode of the original BBC series, where I intend to branch off slightly, and explore the characters, and their pasts, a little more :D**

**There were a couple things I wanted to ask of y'all, in response to a couple of comments from reviewers that have caught my eye.**

**1) Should Moriarty be in any way related to the wizarding world? I'm loathe to make him an actual character (like malfoy or whatever), but there is potential for him to be connected to that aspect of Harry's past. Thoughts?**

**2) Should Sherlock have any daliances with Irene Adler? Adler will be in the story at some point, but should there be any romance flaring, or is it merely mutual appreciation of the others' talents?**

**3) Is there anything in particular people want to see? I have large, soaring plots that will weave their ways over and through the chapters somewhat like a descant, but there's a whole bunch of nitty gritty wonderous things that can occur in between - counter melodies and ostinatos and all the rest. So, everyone gets a say! Whoo!**

**As always, thanks to you all for the glorious attention you've bestowed my work and, by extension, me. It's always a beautiful ego boost.**

**I look forward to seeing y'all on the flip side,**

**Zanchev**


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